Lucian_Devine
Owned and Collared
- Joined
- Jun 20, 2020
- Posts
- 717
Screams of death were all around Tastol. His blades darted out here and flicked there, sinking lethally into flesh, or sliding along throats and knees. He was the cause of every death scream that filled the large antechamber, and yet he felt no remorse for any of it.
Tastol Kydaer had spent the past couple of months following this cult, following the trail of bodies they'd left behind, ritualistically murdered. Even when he'd found the lair, he'd had to go slow, taking prisoners, and torturing them for the information he'd needed. Now, all of that time and hard work was paying off. He'd finally found the hideout, and he was in the process of finishing off the last of them. The leader wasn't among them though, that much he did know.
Only when the last man in the large chamber had been finished off, some needing one more stab in the heart, and the last bit of blood flicked from his twin blades did Tastol finally move on. He darted quickly across the chamber, moving to the stairs at the far side. He almost flew down them, moving with a speed that many envied. down and down and down he went, down until he came to a door at the very bottom. He pressed his ear to it, and when he heard nothing, he tested it, finding it locked. He wasn't too worried about it though. He took one step back and gave it a kick. The door flew open, and Tastol darted inside, despite the stench that assaulted him in the process. Right in front of him was his target, the vampire napping safely in his coffin, or so he thought. Tastol rushed forward, but in his haste he'd overlooked something. He heard it before he saw it, and he had smelled it even before that. He just hadn't recognized the source until he was ducking beneath the swing of a giant club.
Tastol rolled to safety, his mithril scimitars almost jumping into his hands. He rose back to his feet and waited, waiting for the large and stupid brute to turn. It was so hard to find good help these days. Tastol simply smiled and waited, his knees bent, and his blades ready. His muscles itched for this, even though he knew it would be short, for it was not the first time he'd fought a troll. Just as he'd expected, the troll charged. Tastol didn't move though, not even as he watched the giant club lift into the air. No, he stood his ground, knowing that he was the superior of the two. The troll closed the distance with a speed that would have surprised most people, but Tastol was ready. His blades lifted as the club came down. He didn't try to block it though. That would have been suicide. He took a step to his left, sidestepping the club as he used some of his own strength to push it down and away from him. In a singular motion, he dropped his scimitars and spun. The sheer momentum of the troll's swing had brought him down, and before the thing even knew what had happened, Tastol had drawn his katana, the beautifully curved mithril blade slipping free of it's sheathe. It's arc was perfect, a single blow that was lent power from his spin, a spinning slash that severed the beast's head. One flick of his blade, and the blood was gone from the silvery blue surface. Tastol retrieved his scimitars and turned his attentions to the man, or rather vampire, sleeping in the coffin.
It was such a shame for the fool that he was what he was, destined to sleep during the daytime. It was the single-greatest advantage Tastol had over them, and one he'd used often. Despite his advantages though, Tastol wasted no time in decapitating this foe as well, watching the body turn to dust. A few minutes later, Tastol had set the entire complex on fire and left, moving on to rest before he found another enemy to kill.
Tastol's life was like that, had been since he'd first discovered what he was. For he was a dhampir, a rare half-breed that could only be birthed by a male vampire and a female human. As was normal though, Tastol's mother didn't survive the experience, and he was left with nobody to teach him about himself. From his youngest years, everybody knew Tastol was different. He was stronger, faster, and more quiet than his peers. He was also a loner, but that didn't bother anybody. They were content to leave him be, and he was happy that way, happy until he started to feel the thirst. It was a thirst that no water could quench, a hunger that no food could sate. It was his vampire half, craving the blood that gave him him their strengths. Try as he might, he could never truly resist it, no matter how hard he tried. He'd left the orphanage as early as he could manage it, taking up the life of a mercenary, one where he could feed off his foes before killing them.
Being a dhampir had it's advantages in Tastol's line of work, advantages that he was more than happy for. For starters, he wasn't effected by sunlight. He moved freely, both during the day and during the night. It made finding his foes that much easier.
Tastol had done as much research as he could on his "condition" trying to find out as much about it, and others like himself as he could. He found that he shared much in common with the few dhampirs that were known from the past. Every one of them hated their vampire fathers, and Tastol had killed his own personally. Every one of them had taken to a life of violence and solitude, and every one of them had become a vampire when they died, and it was for that reason that their job was never complete. Every dhampir hated that part of themselves, that even when every vampire in the world was gone, still one remained. When he died, he would rise again, as that which he hated, unless he was slain in such a way that would kill a vampire.
With a quick shake of his head, Tastol headed back to the town that was the closest to where he was. His horse was a sturdy brown mare, one who'd been with him for quite some time. It had taken him a very long time to find a horse that would bear him as a rider, and he treated her well for that. A few hours later, Tastol was sinking into a bath, cleaning the blood of his fallen foes from his flawless pale skin, something he'd done more times than he could count. Then, when at last he was clean once more, Tastol sank into his bed, letting his weary body finally rest.
Tastol rarely dreamed, but this night was an exception. He couldn't really describe much from it, except for a church, and a desire to go there, to do something, something important. Tastol just shook it off when he woke though, attributing his strange dream to his hunger, for it had been a couple of days since he'd fed. The thirst was the second hardest part about being a dhampir. Hiding the fact that he was a dhampir was the hardest. Thankfully though, they were things Tastol had become very good at. He hadn't told a soul about his true nature, and when he did need to feed, he did it quickly, quietly, and mercifully. He never killed the people he fed from, unless they were people he was going to kill anyway, and he always hid the wound by licking it afterwards, something few people knew about.
Unfortunately for Tastol though, the dreams persisted from feeding to feeding. He tried to distract himself with looking for work, with gambling, and even a few barmaids here and there, but nothing could rid him of the dreams, and the strange desire to go to a church he'd never been to before. With a final resigned sigh, Tastol decided to do it, if only to sate his own strange desire to go, to understand why.
The trip to the church would have been far more annoying for Tastol, being as he didn't know exactly where it was, if not for the dreams guiding him to it. Still, he took his time, feeding as he needed and still trying to figure out why he was being drawn to this church, and what was of such great importance.
Nobody challenged Tastol at the gates of the church grounds, and still nobody challenged him when he got to the large double doors. They were simply opened for him, and he was led inside and into the main chamber, where he would hopefully find out what this was all about.
Tastol Kydaer had spent the past couple of months following this cult, following the trail of bodies they'd left behind, ritualistically murdered. Even when he'd found the lair, he'd had to go slow, taking prisoners, and torturing them for the information he'd needed. Now, all of that time and hard work was paying off. He'd finally found the hideout, and he was in the process of finishing off the last of them. The leader wasn't among them though, that much he did know.
Only when the last man in the large chamber had been finished off, some needing one more stab in the heart, and the last bit of blood flicked from his twin blades did Tastol finally move on. He darted quickly across the chamber, moving to the stairs at the far side. He almost flew down them, moving with a speed that many envied. down and down and down he went, down until he came to a door at the very bottom. He pressed his ear to it, and when he heard nothing, he tested it, finding it locked. He wasn't too worried about it though. He took one step back and gave it a kick. The door flew open, and Tastol darted inside, despite the stench that assaulted him in the process. Right in front of him was his target, the vampire napping safely in his coffin, or so he thought. Tastol rushed forward, but in his haste he'd overlooked something. He heard it before he saw it, and he had smelled it even before that. He just hadn't recognized the source until he was ducking beneath the swing of a giant club.
Tastol rolled to safety, his mithril scimitars almost jumping into his hands. He rose back to his feet and waited, waiting for the large and stupid brute to turn. It was so hard to find good help these days. Tastol simply smiled and waited, his knees bent, and his blades ready. His muscles itched for this, even though he knew it would be short, for it was not the first time he'd fought a troll. Just as he'd expected, the troll charged. Tastol didn't move though, not even as he watched the giant club lift into the air. No, he stood his ground, knowing that he was the superior of the two. The troll closed the distance with a speed that would have surprised most people, but Tastol was ready. His blades lifted as the club came down. He didn't try to block it though. That would have been suicide. He took a step to his left, sidestepping the club as he used some of his own strength to push it down and away from him. In a singular motion, he dropped his scimitars and spun. The sheer momentum of the troll's swing had brought him down, and before the thing even knew what had happened, Tastol had drawn his katana, the beautifully curved mithril blade slipping free of it's sheathe. It's arc was perfect, a single blow that was lent power from his spin, a spinning slash that severed the beast's head. One flick of his blade, and the blood was gone from the silvery blue surface. Tastol retrieved his scimitars and turned his attentions to the man, or rather vampire, sleeping in the coffin.
It was such a shame for the fool that he was what he was, destined to sleep during the daytime. It was the single-greatest advantage Tastol had over them, and one he'd used often. Despite his advantages though, Tastol wasted no time in decapitating this foe as well, watching the body turn to dust. A few minutes later, Tastol had set the entire complex on fire and left, moving on to rest before he found another enemy to kill.
Tastol's life was like that, had been since he'd first discovered what he was. For he was a dhampir, a rare half-breed that could only be birthed by a male vampire and a female human. As was normal though, Tastol's mother didn't survive the experience, and he was left with nobody to teach him about himself. From his youngest years, everybody knew Tastol was different. He was stronger, faster, and more quiet than his peers. He was also a loner, but that didn't bother anybody. They were content to leave him be, and he was happy that way, happy until he started to feel the thirst. It was a thirst that no water could quench, a hunger that no food could sate. It was his vampire half, craving the blood that gave him him their strengths. Try as he might, he could never truly resist it, no matter how hard he tried. He'd left the orphanage as early as he could manage it, taking up the life of a mercenary, one where he could feed off his foes before killing them.
Being a dhampir had it's advantages in Tastol's line of work, advantages that he was more than happy for. For starters, he wasn't effected by sunlight. He moved freely, both during the day and during the night. It made finding his foes that much easier.
Tastol had done as much research as he could on his "condition" trying to find out as much about it, and others like himself as he could. He found that he shared much in common with the few dhampirs that were known from the past. Every one of them hated their vampire fathers, and Tastol had killed his own personally. Every one of them had taken to a life of violence and solitude, and every one of them had become a vampire when they died, and it was for that reason that their job was never complete. Every dhampir hated that part of themselves, that even when every vampire in the world was gone, still one remained. When he died, he would rise again, as that which he hated, unless he was slain in such a way that would kill a vampire.
With a quick shake of his head, Tastol headed back to the town that was the closest to where he was. His horse was a sturdy brown mare, one who'd been with him for quite some time. It had taken him a very long time to find a horse that would bear him as a rider, and he treated her well for that. A few hours later, Tastol was sinking into a bath, cleaning the blood of his fallen foes from his flawless pale skin, something he'd done more times than he could count. Then, when at last he was clean once more, Tastol sank into his bed, letting his weary body finally rest.
Tastol rarely dreamed, but this night was an exception. He couldn't really describe much from it, except for a church, and a desire to go there, to do something, something important. Tastol just shook it off when he woke though, attributing his strange dream to his hunger, for it had been a couple of days since he'd fed. The thirst was the second hardest part about being a dhampir. Hiding the fact that he was a dhampir was the hardest. Thankfully though, they were things Tastol had become very good at. He hadn't told a soul about his true nature, and when he did need to feed, he did it quickly, quietly, and mercifully. He never killed the people he fed from, unless they were people he was going to kill anyway, and he always hid the wound by licking it afterwards, something few people knew about.
Unfortunately for Tastol though, the dreams persisted from feeding to feeding. He tried to distract himself with looking for work, with gambling, and even a few barmaids here and there, but nothing could rid him of the dreams, and the strange desire to go to a church he'd never been to before. With a final resigned sigh, Tastol decided to do it, if only to sate his own strange desire to go, to understand why.
The trip to the church would have been far more annoying for Tastol, being as he didn't know exactly where it was, if not for the dreams guiding him to it. Still, he took his time, feeding as he needed and still trying to figure out why he was being drawn to this church, and what was of such great importance.
Nobody challenged Tastol at the gates of the church grounds, and still nobody challenged him when he got to the large double doors. They were simply opened for him, and he was led inside and into the main chamber, where he would hopefully find out what this was all about.
